WeissKreuz Those Who Live By The Sword
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Aya has problems easing up, Yohji finds that difficult to handle, they engage in a bit of swordplay and bets are placed... oh, and adventurous, rather experienced chibis. A bit of gloom ‘n doom to set the scene for the funbits at the end.


**Those Who Live By The Sword**

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz  
Genre(s): Romance, Humour, Angst  
Rating: M for boy love and language  
Pairing: Aya and Yohji, Omi and Ken  
Warnings: Boys loving boys, slight profanity, Yohji's (mis)use of sharp objects.

Summary: Aya has problems easing up, Yohji finds that difficult to handle, they engage in a bit of swordplay and bets are placed... oh, and adventurous, rather experienced chibis. A bit of gloom 'n doom to set the scene for the fun-bits at the end...

**Storm**

Omi sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, one sneaker-encased foot planted on the floor, the other one dangling, back and forth, his hands holding a gameboy idly in his lap. He was watching Yohji who studiously avoided looking at him while making coffee.

I had not expected to see them up so early: Omi usually would rise in the small hours but work on his computer 'til breakfast, and Kudoh... well, Yohji never was one for crawling out of the sheets too soon. He tends to be too hungover for that.

I do not know what made me pause by the door instead of walking right in, but they seemed oddly tense; I could sense the air between them crackling, and could not help wondering what had set them off like that. Normally, they were like an odd pair of socks, different but still two of a kind, with Yohji acting out some kind of warped big brother role to the chibi. Who, strangely, appeared to accept it.

"Help me to understand," he said to Yohji's broad back.

Yohji fiddled with the coffee maker, then swore under his breath and put the kettle on before turning to face Omi. He was smiling, but his eyes remained dark, he almost looked a tad defensive. Instead of replying, he fumbled for his cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt and lit up.

"It's not working, Yotan," Omi broke the silence. He kept turning the game in his hands, his eyes resting on Yohji, and I knew he would have this cool, guarded expression on his young face, as though evaluating an expensive piece of kit. Perhaps that's what we all are to him, after all, he is responsible to run our team efficiently and without hitches.

Yohji shrugged, exhaling a stream of blue smoke through his nose. "You put us together, Omitchi."

For a moment, the chibi looked down at his hands, the game, then he scratched at his temple and met Yohji's glum, guarded gaze. "Well, I made a mistake. Look, I can always have him taken off the team again. It is difficult enough as it stands, we don't need that sorta thing. He's been with us for some time now, and does he try to integrate? The fuck he does. We can get someone else to lead on-site, and-"

"No," Yohji said, his voice rather harsh. He flicked some ash onto the floor, a thoughtless gesture. The muscles of his jaw worked, his lips were a hard, white line, and the sinews in his neck stood out like cords.

Omi held his gaze. "No? Whatcha hoping for, Yotan? You gave him chance after chance, we all have been rather patient, don't you think?"

"It's more difficult for him than for any of us," Yohji fairly snapped, before sucking down a lungful of smoke. His hand lifting the cigarette was not quite steady, and I believe the chibi also noticed. He has eyes like a hawk.

"I don't think so," Omi retorted, rather sharply.

"He's got issues."

"Haven't we all." Sarcasm, in Omi?

"But his run deeper." Yohji definitely on the defensive here. Not an easy feat against Omi's sharp tongue. "He's the only one who still has something to lose."

"And whose fault is that? Yours? Ours?" Omi shook his head and ruffled through his mop of bright hair. "I understand that he dislikes being here, with us, having to listen, to bend his pride. But I'm telling you, all this honour thing is rubbish – where is his discipline when he takes it out on you? After all, none of us had much choice."

"I'm not defenceless," Yohji mumbled. The kettle hissed, and he quickly turned to pour boiling water into two mugs with instant coffee. He took milk, Omi sugar. He handed one mug to the chibi, and leaned back against the counter to drink.

Omi put aside his game and picked up the mug Yohji had placed by his side. He cradled it in his thin hands for a moment, before seeking Yohji's glance again. "Sort it out, Yotan, if you can. I won't blame you if it doesn't work. Though in that case, he has no place here, with us."

Yohji peered at him over the rim of the mug. "How much of a chance did we give him, Omi?"

Omi shifted, a small, uncomfortable motion. "Whatcha mean?"

Yohji's eyes hardened. "I mean," he said slowly, through another breath of smoke, "how much did we try to help him? Make him one of us?"

"You tried pretty hard," Omi sniped, a low, rather mean blow that made Yohji flinch. "And look what you got for your efforts."

"So you're saying you knew all along?" Yohji sounded wounded. "You set me up?"

A small pause, before the chibi set down his mug and slipped off the table. He leaned against Yohji and put his arms round him, nuzzling his blond head into the crook of Yohji's neck. "If I'd known," he said, his tone suddenly soft and pained, "I'd never accepted him in the first place. Just thought... well, yanno, you liked him. He... scares me, sometimes, yanno. I'm fucking sorry, man."

Yohji wound an arm round Omi's shoulders and took another long pull at his fag. "Hey," he murmured, dipping his nose into the blond hair and shaking the chibi a bit, "c'mon, Omitchi. It's poor little Aya we're talking about. He's scared shitless himself, and small wonder that is."

No, I was not!

"Poor?"

I could hear the raised eyebrows in Omi's tone. Yohji nodded into his hair. Smoke curled from his nose, and at that moment, Yohji's green gaze drifted over the chibi and up, to catch mine. "He's fallen harder than any of us," he said quietly, "cut down 'fore he could live. Ken and me, we have lived for a while, at least. You, you were raised to play the game. Where does that leave Aya?"

How could I answer that?

I had lost my appetite. I had grown accustomed to thinking of Omi as our carefully neutral co-ordinator, the mind behind our practical operations, the one to link us with Kritiker and sort out the annoying little details to make our missions successful. Having to regard him as hostile to me was a different matter.

**Love Me**

Predictably, Yohji rapped my door a few minutes after I'd retreated to my room to read. I could not concentrate, turning over in my mind what I had heard, a strange, burning sensation heavy in my chest. I really had to have that sorted out; I could not afford to die of some heart attack with my sister so dependent on the money I earned.

He plunged in before I could tell him to go away. He would have come in anyway. I had allowed him to sleep with me a few times, and that put ideas in his mind. Such as regarding my private space as meaningless, merely another playing field for him. I should have known, but I was weak and did not take enough care.

"Ayan," he said, his voice nervous and soft as he came closer and folded to his knees by the side of my futon. He stretched out his hand to touch me.

"I do not need your pity," I said, clear and cold.

His hand froze mid-air. Good. Though... his touch is warm, firm, sure. He fills me with a sensation I cannot name, but when he is with me, I know stillness, and I just want to stay like that forever. In his arms, in his bed, in his life, with not a care in the world. He has done that to me, and for this I hate him more than anything.

His fingers alighted on my neck anyway. They danced over my skin, making me tingle, as always. When would he ever listen to anything I say? As though I were no more than a nagging man-wife to him. He leaned down and trailed feathery kisses after his touch. He smelled good, of sandal and tobacco, of his cigarettes and the coffee he'd just had, and a little of Omi.

"There's nothing to pity in you," he said gently. "You kill, you hate, you destroy. It's all you have, it's all you wanna give. Why should I pity you?"

And why did his words make me cringe? He caught me as I tried to squirm from him, and pulled me up, his long, hard hands cupping the back of my neck and pressing against the small of my back. "Hey, skittish one," he said, entirely without mockery, and I could feel his lips move against the shell of my ear. "You hate me, too, for making you feel, huh?"

Now he had a point.

"I know you do. And you hate yourself for having given in to that old slut."

He was cradling me, rocking me softly against him, and I went slack, sinking into him as I always do. To be held and gentled and soothed, something that reminds me oddly of my mother, and never fails to make me choke with the heat that wells into my throat and stings my eyes. He makes me weak.

"And you hate that you hate," he spun his yarn, and I wished he would start to undress me and we would have sex and forget about all of this nonsense, but when I grappled for the hem of his shirt to drag it off him, he clamped his arm round me to trap mine. "And you wanna fuck it away for a little while, so you don't have to think about it."

He dropped a kiss on the top of my head and held me tighter when I started struggling, after all, trying to shake off this stupor he causes me to wallow in. He did not yield. It always begins like that. It tends to end with him bruised and battered because he never fights beyond the most necessary to keep me from killing him. He never learns.

"Then you'll beat me up, tellin' me it's all my own fault 'cos I should just leave you alone. You tell yourself you got a reason to hate a bit more."

"Let off," I managed, a hiss that had the chill of winter.

"Know what?" He was shaking a bit, heaving, I could tell and made to look up, but he dug his fingers into the pressure point at the nape of my neck to prevent it. "I wondered why I keep coming back for more. Perhaps I'm a damn fucked-up masochist. Or a dumb blond. That's up to others to judge."

Another kiss, this time to the side of my neck. I longed to melt into him and hated him as I hate myself, so much hate I could burn the world, he hurts me like no one else can. He knows that and still he won't let off, he never does until he has me screaming and slashing and kicking at him. Until he's bleeding, bruised and out of breath from struggling, only just, holding back not to strangle me, and I have him cornered and keep beating him until he's no more than a tightly curled bundle, arms over his head, in a corner of my room.

"It's 'cos I know," he whispered, his breath warm on my chill skin, "that in this frosty little soul, I have a place, and that you're scared 'cos I've hit home."

"Let go!" I did not realise I would yell. That he'd tick me off so quickly, so promptly, with mortal precision. I had no idea that this time, he would pounce and fight me down, sorrow and anger and pain in his eyes, and a tear too that slid down his cheek until he furiously rubbed at it with the back of his hand.

"The hell I will! I love you, idiot! You love me! What right do you have to do this to me?" He was fairly shouting at me. I would have beaten him. He never paid back that way, he is more subtle than me, sly and underhand. Perhaps that's why he and Omi have this kind of connection.

One hard push, and I managed to yank free. He fell back and was on his feet almost instantly as I careered into the wall with an grunt that knocked the air out of me for a second.

"You're so damn cracked up, Ayan," he spat, knowing how much I hate the nickname.

"Get out," I snarled at him, curling my hands to fists by my sides.

He swallowed hard, his face clenching, and then he just left, carefully clicking the door shut after himself.

**Love Me Not **

When I went past his room to get ready for our afternoon shift – Omi tended to arrange late shifts for us in his indulgence of Yohji's habit of getting up late – I could not help but slow down. A stupid habit, born of weakness, I know, but my feet acted as though my mind had no say in the matter.

At first, I thought I had misheard. There was a small sound from inside, then a long silence, then another. I leaned against the door and pressed my ear against the wood. Sometimes, one has to be pragmatic rather than worried about the means of gathering information.

Someone was crying. Bitter, dry sobs, with long breaks in between as though he was trying to fight them down.

Those sobs went straight to my heart, sharp and poisonous like one of Omi's darts.

Why did I knock? Why did I not just ignore this and walk downstairs to open the shop? I could not tell. But that's what I did, and I heard the stunned silence that followed, then Yohji blowing his nose, followed by the small rustle of clothes, the padding of bare feet and then the soft creaking of the door as it opened.

He peered through the gap that was barely wide enough for his nose to peep out and one green eye. It looked bleary. "Oh... time for our shift? I'll be down in a minute," he said, trying to sound light.

I put my foot in the door. "Let me in."

He tried a glare. He failed. Yohji is unable to glare, his eyes are too soft, way too kind deep down, beyond all that glassy stare he uses when on mission. He is cool, he is self-assured most of the time, and when that doesn't work, he will talk his way out of almost anything. He is good at killing swiftly, never takes his pleasure at watching his victims thrash to death while his wire cuts their throats. If I had his skill, I would enjoy it.

"Aya, thanks for reminding me, I swear I'll be downstairs-"

I gave the door a kick; it stunned him enough to make him stumble backwards and I was in. "I heard you."

He wiped his sleeve over his face and stared at me, his expression strangely blank. "You heard nothing." He even tried to grin, a hollow grimace, as he groped through his pockets for his cigarettes.

Now that I was in his room, I had no idea what to say. I am no good with words, unlike him. So I just stood there, gaping stupidly, and he lit his cigarette and gaped back at me. He broke first, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. "We'll be late if we don't make a move."

"I don't want that," was the first thing I could come up with. I leaned back against the door that clapped shut. "I do not want you to do that. I do not want you to..."

"Suffer," he supplied quietly as my voice faded. He fairly ate that cigarette, wrapping himself into layers of a blue haze. "But that," he went on, his voice not gentle at all, "is what you are doing. You make me suffer. You make me hurt, like hell, like nothing hurt me since Asuka. You knew as well as I did that it never was just about sex. I told you. I held nothing back."

"Neither did I!" That burning in my chest again, oh, how I hate it.

He regarded me, his eyes oddly cool. "Yeah, maybe I was just hope's fool, right? It's not your fault, is it? Not at all, Ayan, you were so terribly honest, you did not even wanna try to live." He waved his cigarette, ash dripped onto the floor unheeded. "But hey, don't worry, I'll get over you alright. I'll go out and fuck around a bit, as I used to, and what? Won't matter to you any longer, huh? You must be so relieved."

Him, getting fucked by whoever wanted him, those golden limbs spread and this wonderfully knowing body open for someone else than me. Or him doing the favours over some sweaty nobody while he still could, before his drugs kicked in and rendered him boneless. The thought made me sick.

"You can have it both, yanno," he said slowly. "'Cos we're in the same trade. Who else would love you, Ayan? The way you are now? Bloodied and ugly inside, in spite of this pretty face of yours and those perfect manners?"

Yes, who would?

"Think you don't need it, huh? Wanna die anyway?" He smoked too much. "Well, I need. I want. I love. And if you're not gonna give me that, I'll go look elsewhere. Find another willing ass, another happy dick to shove up my backside. I have no illusions, Aya. I know who I am and live with it. I'm stronger than you."

He was not. He had no manners, no sense of honour, let alone morals. He had just tried to manipulate me into feeling isolated. He had cried, and he was a lover of men. But I had to know, had to understand what he was doing to me, and why. "So why is it you want me?"

He looked at me through the veil of smoke, a long, calculating glance, before he turned to walk to the window and lift the bamboo blind a little. "I thought about that," he said, his tone factual, "and yes, part of you reminded me of Asuka. Everything I had tried to bury, you dug it up again, and it welled inside me until I thought I'd have to puke it out. And then I realised you weren't like her at all. That I had changed, too. That I could not hang on to things past and live on at the same time 'cos it was tearing me to shreds."

"So you took me on as your pet project?"

He winced a little. I saw another cloud of smoke swirl around his blond head. "Yeah," he murmured, "I think that sums it up. It WAS pity at first, and then... like catching a glimpse of something... a glint of gold under tons of shifting sand. You... I was... I mean, it was fascinating. Beautiful. I thought I could see what was beneath all your layers of ice." His shoulders lifted a little, as in a suppressed sigh. "Well, perhaps I was wrong after all. Perhaps there is nothing but darkness."

"You were after fucking me."

He dropped his head against the window. The blind clattered a bit. "Hell, yeah, you look tasty enough to eat, Ayan. I loved you already. Couldn't help it, fool that I am. And then, to have you asking me to show you – what d'you expect? Using me like some dildo?"

That was mean.

He had shown me, but I got more than I had bargained for. More than I was willing to handle, for I got him body and mind and soul and all, piped right into me without restraint. He hit me like a train.

For he was gentle. Undressed me like I was some precious doll, something easy to break, and I remember his face as he knelt before me and looked up, his expression full of wonder, his eyes shining the most beautiful green, warm and happy and a bit incredulous. He kissed me down there and let me drink in the sensation of his mouth taking me in, while his hands, those hard, murderous hands, roamed every inch of my skin with a tenderness I had not known.

He made me cry that night, and I was not ashamed. I sobbed when I came into his mouth and he drank me down, holding me, kneading my hands, before coming up to cover my body with his and kissing me. Gently, like everything he did to me, and deeply too, so I could taste my own flavour along with his. Bittersharp, salt, tobacco and lust. He kissed away the tears I had not known were running and dripping into my ears, and he made me wet down there with something he kept under his pillow, and I let him touch me more intimately than anyone had, or ever would touch me again.

He offered to let me do this to him first, so I could see how it worked and then decide, but I was glad for once to let go. I trusted him. For the first time since my world was blasted to bloody shreds, I trusted without realising. He was too considerate to make it hurt, he took his time, and when he did enter me, he pressed in quickly first and then slowly so I had no time to think or seize up, only to take and suck him in. And then, feel.

Never before had I known how it is to melt into one with another, man or woman. And all the time, he was kissing, caressing, whispering soft words into my ears, against my neck, my nipples, my skin wherever his lips could reach while he was rocking me with measured thrusts. He touched my insides in a way that set me ablaze, and I came again long before he let go and pulsed into me, his golden body going rigid for a moment, his face pressed into the crook of my neck, his amber hair sweaty and tangled with mine.

He sighed my name. Ran.

Ran.

He did not love Aya. He loved what I had been.

**One Clean Cut **

"It's all wrong," I said as chilly as I could manage. I felt cold, under his gaze that held no warmth now. "Perhaps that's what I did expect. Perhaps that's all you should have given. I didn't ask for more."

This was not what I meant to tell him. In another life, I would have asked him whether he was trying to redeem himself, by transforming his own guilt and pain, by trying to make mine appear smaller, by seeking a reason to live and making me weak so he could be strong. Not here, not now. I had a task to fulfil. A legacy that no one could wipe out for it was engraved into my soul in blood.

"You think I shouldn't love Ran? Those bits of you that aren't rotten?" He gestured loosely with his cigarette at me. "But what else is there in you, Ayan? That's the shreds of goodness that you still have. They are you as much as the rest, your cursed knife, your crimson mask. Perhaps I AM stupid. Perhaps I wear my mask worse than you wear yours. That's 'cos I'm trying to remember who I really am, instead to forget it."

"It is none of your business. Those... bits, they hurt me. I am tired of hurting, it distracts me. I want them gone, and you insist on raking them up. It won't work. It is your fault if you cannot accept that."

He briefly closed his eyes and sagged against the window sash. He looked ill, in a way different to his usual hangovers. "Hai, my fault." No more than a breath of smoke, a splash of grey ashes on the dirty floor. "All I wanted..." He broke off, wiped his face with both shaking hands, yes, they were shaking a lot now, and he rubbed slowly, then pinched the bridge of his nose before blinking at me again. "Wanted to hold you. Make you breathe again, and then... if you'd leave me then... I'd..." He swallowed, wiped again. "I'd let you go without complaining."

My chest hurt so much. It hurt beyond words, beyond thoughts. I found it hard to breathe and had to lean against that door quite heavily.

"I... I wasn't truthful earlier," he whispered, "went out to cut you... ended up cutting myself. It's not true that there's nothing in you." He clamped one hand around the edge of the windowsill and dragged the other one through his messed-up hair. "You're everything I want. Pretty. Fiery. Honest." He tried a laugh, it came out as a pained rasp. "Sexy, too. Brave. Cultured." He thought for a moment. "But then, perhaps... I'm just a slutty old fag."

That was not the point. He was everything he just told me, except that – he was... well, generous, and a bit indiscriminate, but-

"Aya, do you hate me?"

Yes.

"Could you..." He drew a long, nervous breath and dropped the cigarette butt. "Could you kill me?"

Kill him.

"With that sword of yours?" His eyes sought mine, boring into me, willing me to answer. I was backed up against the door by his gaze.

"Because," he pushed away from the window, "that would sort it all, right?" He came closer, and I meant to melt into the wood behind me, glaring at him furiously. It never impressed him. He merely took my elbow and tugged a little as he reached for the door knob. "Care coming along?"

We wound up in my room, where he let go of me and bent to grope under my futon. He came back up with my katana, sheathed, in his hands, holding it close to his face, his green gaze running its length; then he pulled a little and the steel hissed out a few inches.

He turned to meet my eyes over the cool, shimmering metal. "I don't mind, Ayan. I really do not. Omi knows I would ask you to do this. You'd walk unscathed from here, and it would be over." He stretched out his arms, slowly baring more of the blade until the sheath clunked to the tatami floor and he stood, the naked steel resting on the back of his left arm, his right hand curled tight around the hilt. "So do it. Or tell me you're mine."

He is harebrained. All that bleach he was using had damaged him, I was sure of that.

"Rubbish." I meant to bark, I only croaked.

He placed the edge of the steel against his neck, knowingly, where the big vein pulsed with life. Hot, sunny life. Yohji's life. He began to drag it up, and I watched, mesmerised, tiny beads of crimson appear along the fine line. If he kept pulling, that line would deepen, begin to gape, scoured skin pried apart by the heated pressure of life's pulse beneath. The beads would melt into a trickle, into a run, into a stream. If he managed to slice all the way – some people are quick enough, and his reflexes are like lightning – it would turn into a hissing fountain, spraying away as he would crumble to the floor, stunned by bloodloss and drowned by the stuff gushing into his lungs, before his eyes would break.

I could do this for him. I could speed it all up. One clean cut, and it was over, his blond head rolling from his golden body, and I would be free again.

Free.  
Of what?  
For what?

My revenge. My revenge. My revenge.

**Close Shave **

He was smiling darkly at me. "I made a bet," he said, still cutting himself, millimetre by excruciating millimetre, and the blade began to bite him deeper, into his hot, firm flesh that had known my kisses and my teeth. The blood flew more freely, staining the shiny metal, trickling down the blade to the tip where it hung and quivered, a gleaming droplet of crimson, another, a string of pearls, raining to the floor, staining my tatamis.

"A bet?" I heard myself ask; somehow my tongue had disconnected from my brain.

His smile broadened, took a feral edge, something I had rarely seen in him. His features are sharp and handsome, but too soft for nastiness. "Hai, a bet. One of us bet you'd do it, the other one said you'd not. Too weak, yanno."

He winced, blood flowed. Cutting, cutting. A tiny quiver ran the length of the steel, following the trickle of gleaming red, but his arm moved steadily.

"Who..." Breathing hurt. Air ran into me like fire. I hurt so bad I could hardly think. "Who said I wouldn't?"

"Now THAT would be anyone's guess." He would not gasp, or sigh, or lean back against the wall though I could see he wanted to, but he could not hide the flash of pain in his eyes, the flutter of brown lashes, before they opened wide again and laughed at me, mocking, defying me, daring me.

My revenge. Hate. Love. My revenge.  
My revenge.

Only he stood between me and my revenge.  
He and his cursed lust for life.

I hissed air in, tearing it into my lungs and willing myself to step forward, one swift move, and he matched it, easy as a dancer, meeting me chest to chest, so warm, so damp, sticky and smelling of heated metal. The stench of death, of blood, of vengeance instead of the smells of love and sex.

He always was too emotional. So I had outwitted him.  
If he kept moving the blade, he would stab it into my shoulder. My flesh.

He stared down at me, something flared up in his green gaze that I could not read, before subsiding as a flame beneath a layer of ash. The tip of the blade dented the fabric of my shirt, I could feel it, needlesharp, pricking at my skin. Not quite cutting now.

We stood still, hardly breathing. He was trying to will me to admit defeat, or murder him; I was not ready for either. But what else was there? Who else besides of him? My sister, whether dying or living, I could not know. No other man. No other woman. Only him, ready to die, here, at my feet because I refused to love him?

What a trite old story.

I saw his throat move as he swallowed hard. I saw his eyes swim suddenly though they held a hard gleam, no, he would not budge, he was stubborn that way, so very obstinate, more so than me. I had known him bare, beautiful, melting around me like liquid honey, warmed in sunshine, gilded in pleasure. He had not hidden his heart from me, and he had surrendered his soul, whether I meant to take it or not. He had thrust it at me and left me to cope.

He had disarmed me.

I gripped his fist on the hilt before he could twist away. I pressed hard, feeling his sudden, terrified resistance as I shoved the blade towards myself, saw his face fall, his defiance crumble, the tears starting to run, all in silence, our breath barely quickening as I pulled and he pushed back against my hand, trying to keep the blade from piercing my hide.

"That what you want?" I whispered at him and saw his eyes widen in shock. "We could make it a love suicide, hm? Skewered together, like some crabs on a bamboo stick, ready to eat. How romantic."

"But," he gasped, his arm beginning to tremble from the extended effort against my fresh strength, "your sister..."

I stared into his eyes. "Yesss. My sister, Yotan. My past. My revenge. No fucking future, no love, no softness, nothing, nothing, none of that!"

He lapsed and I used the moment to yank his arm aside, drill my fingers into his wrist and make him drop the katana. I was good at Go, he was not. Perhaps Yohji had an eye for tactics, but definitively no sense of strategy.

I caught him as he sagged.

As I had done, an eternity ago, when he was dancing at the edge of a roof in his grief for Asuka. This time, he held me as much as I held him.

Close.  
Warm.  
Boneless.

And the gods help me, we were both hard as rock.

**The Chibi Perspective **

Ken sent a glance at the ceiling of the kitchen and quickly looked back down at the soap suds in the sink. "I owe you," he grumbled over his shoulder at Omi, who lounged, smoking, on a chair and leafed through a computer magazine.

"Yeah, you do – they're fucking. Lemme see, fifty grand if Yohji got him to back off without drawing blood, forty if one of them would bleed, thirty if both, and zilch if they murdered each other. You naked as a bonus if they'd make out after. I'd have owed you only if one killed the other."

"Hai," Ken snapped, putting aside a bowl with an audible clank, "thirty for Yohji and fifty for Aya."

Omi grinned over the edge of his magazine. "You look great in nothing but that apron."

Ken snarled a little at the plate he held in his broad hands. "No need to gloat, you won, alright? The redhead would have a fit if he knew I was doing his rice bowl like this."

Omi waved a bundle of rustling banknotes at him. "He'd chop you to size. Hey, it's not like you wouldn't benefit, Kenken. You'll get me, hot and bothered, and then we'll go out and blow thirty thousand yen."

"That won't go far at your haunts," Ken grumbled, moving with a certain swing to his backside, and Omi gasped.

"Good grief, if you do that again... hey!" He dropped magazine and money, banknotes fluttering everywhere, and was behind Ken in a flash. The cigarette expired in the sink as he moulded against Ken, arms round his waist and chin digging sharply into his shoulder. "Bed," he yapped, fondling lower, and Ken let his head loll forward and moaned into the sink. "I should have a bonus," Omi ground against Ken's backside, "'cos they aren't just making out now, are they?"

"But... gotta finish... the... wa... ah, Omi, damn you..."

"Bed," Omi growled, biting Ken's shoulder none-too-gently.

With a deep groan, Ken thrust aside the washing up rag and spun around to clasp Omi in his arms. "I'll do you on the kitchen table," he rumbled, backing the shorter man up against said table, but Omi laughed breathily and pushed him lightly against the chest.

"I won, Kenken, and I want a bed. Lemme see now, yours still sticky, so mine it is."

Ken shuddered. "Argh, we'll hear them first hand." Omi's room being adjacent to Aya's.

Omi grinned, dragging him close and biting his earlobe. "Ngh, that's soo hot," he yapped, "you really ought to get an earful of Yohji fucking, really, Ken... better than porn, yanno, the stuff you can learn like that... picture HIM doing IT... with a running commentary..."

They pushed and tumbled out of the kitchen, laughing and moaning, up the stairs. "Nah," Clinging to the bannister, Ken gasped, feeling his nether regions firmly gripped by a small, firm hand that urged him to take two steps at a time, "I'd rather listen to you, Omitchi, oh-fuck-mi-oh-don't or I'll-damn you, oh-o-mi-ahhhh." And collapsed rather gracelessly over Omi even as they reached the top of the stairs.

"See," Omi said, patting his back, while still shoving them towards his own bedroom. "I get to top 'cos you're not patient enough."

They fairly fell into the room.

Though Ken had the good sense to slam the door shut before Omi threw him unceremoniously onto the bed.

xxx

From Aya's room, a choked cry shuddered down the hallway, and the door opened more than just a gap, to reveal a red and a blond head.

"Damn you, Yohji, you should-"

"Shhh, Ayan, you don't wanna spoil it for them now, do you?"

"I fucking do," came the hissed reply, followed by a tussle.

Then Yohji's hastily soothing voice again, "Aya, be reasonable, for fuck's sake, let them do what we've just done."

"They're too young for that!"

Strained, "You're barely two years older than the chibi!"

"Yesss!"

"Ayan!" in a tone of slight exasperation.

"Gimme! Gimme the fucking sword!"

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"I'll kill him of course!"

"There are house rules here! You CAN NOT DO THAT!"

"Watch me!"

"Fuck me!"

"What?"

A wet, smacking sound, a low gasp. "I said, fuck me. I had your pretty ass, now have mine. How does that sound to you, huh?"

Something clanked with a melodious ring.

The door fell shut.

xxx

Omi hovered over Ken, arms straining against the strong bronze embrace that was pulling him down impatiently. "Yotan owes me now, big time," he smiled, his widest, most dazzling smile, all blue eyes and mischief, mingled with a great, smouldering helping of lust as he looked down at his mate.

Ken's eyes went wide. "You – were gambling? The pair of you?"

A nonchalant shrug of a narrow white shoulder, a toss of bright hair, and that blue gleam deepened. "You know us. Yohji's always one for pushing it. Besides, he really had to sort Aya out, it was getting stupid. And Aya won't get laid without pressure." He winked. "Like, those who live by the sword, will fuck by the sword."

"But they meant it!"

"Hai. Or I'd been cheating you outta that money, yanno."

"You... ah, Omi... but-"

"Shush," Omi hissed, "listen! That's Aya topping; wanna bet?" He threw back his head in mock abandon, rocking his hips with a belly-deep moan.

And collapsed laughing onto a groaning, gagging Ken.

**The End**


End file.
